Warhost of Vastmark - Chapter Nine - Counterploys

[kalinara]

So wow. I made it. This is the last chapter of the third book in this batshit doorstop series. There's still like eight books to go, but still, I'm kind of proud of myself here.



So we move forward ahead in time. Lysaer's lost the main strike at Dier Kenton, last chapter, but he's regrouping. His warhost is about a quarter of what it was, but they're still going. As usual, Arithon's successes also work against him:

The losses at Dier Kenton had convinced the last doubters of Arithon's broad-scale ability to sow ruin. If the Prince of the West could endure the decimation of his recruits from Tysan and Rathain and stay unshaken, his allies from Jaelot and Alestron, and the supporters garnered from Shand, took fire from his example. They poured out their hearts to meet his demands and match his unbending dedication.

Yep.

But it's getting into Autumn, and the weather is not on the invaders' sides. And Arithon's shepherds know the land. They ambush, rain arrows, and escape to reasonable success. But we're reminded that the nomads' numbers are few, and every death is devastating both to Arithon and to the shepherds themselves.

It's so bad that even the gift of purple prose is muted:

Lysaer laboured, tireless, to reforge the knit of troop morale. No matter what the hour, he arose to meet the sentries at every change of the watch. He heard each report from inbound scouts, unfailingly at hand to number their dead or credit their diligence, or acknowledge their smallest success. Thin and tired and regaled in soaked finery, he stood in chill darkness and engaged his gift of light to warm the garrison troops dispirited by the cheerless, dreary nights.

Look at that. He's a wilted flower, poor genocidal asshole.

It should be noted that with the s'Brydion brothers all mysteriously missing, Lysaer's been refitting their mercenary troops. So they're loyal at least.

We also get a look at Diegan's successor: Lord Commander Harradene of Etarra. The name doesn't ring a bell to me, and he doesn't really seem to have Diegan's grandiose presence:

Lord Commander Harradene of Etarra became a familiar sight, splashing from the puddled muck of the picket lines in his oversize boots and a cerecloth cloak which flapped off his broad shoulders like the hunchbacked plumage of a vulture. He was at hand to quell the upset when a pike rack beset by iyats brought a tent down in tatters, then sent the contents of the armourer's tool chest kiting through the high bracken, mallets and nails tumbling and tangling ahead of the men who raced to snatch them.

He also doesn't have Diegan's rapport with Lysaer. He tries to explain how the weather and misfortune is leading to more trouble. Apparently fiends (like the iyats that popped up a fair bit in Merior) are attracted to angst. And there are no hostels or Koriani talismen to ward them off.

Lysaer was seated on a camp stool sharpening a dagger. His hair beaded silver with wet, and his blue-and-gold surcoat a cry of unnatural colour against the unremitting gloom of wet hillsides, he looked up at the towering officer given rank as Lord Diegan's successor. 'You know such vexations are precisely how our enemy hopes to weaken us.' His mildness a mask over iron determination, he added, 'A whole lot worse than iyats will plague the five kingdoms if the Master of Shadow escapes alive.'

Lord Commander Harradene gave back no comment.

The Prince of the West laid aside whetstone and knife. He arose, snapped his fingers to his page, and received the cloak with Tysan's star over his shoulders. Then he waited, silent also, until the burly man of war who balked with folded arms could no longer sustain his level gaze.

Lysaer hasn't lost all his presence. Nor his wit, because he asks if Harradene is recommending Etarra withdraw, with all the implication that the Jaelot and Alestron forces are more staunch. Harradene backs down, of course.

We hear more about the inconveniences facing Lysaer's fleet. It's satisfying to read, but boring to recap. Sorry. Suffice to say, they're having difficulties. And here comes more: Lord Bransian s'Brydion is here to speak to Lysaer.

Duke Bransian ripped off his gauntlets, shedding wet in a pattering deluge to add to what drizzled from the sky. 'Which tent?' At the servant's fractional hesitation, he resumed in a blast of irritation, 'I don't give a damn if your liege is stark naked in his bath with six mistresses! I didn't ride forty leagues over Ath-forsaken gulches to stand in a downpour, waiting.'

I really do love the s'Brydions. Everyone else is utterly in awe of Lysaer and Bransian's like "fuck this bullshit".

And indeed, Bransian's here for a reason. But not the one Lysaer thinks:

'Duke Bransian s'Brydion, accept my welcome,' greeted the Prince of the West. 'You have my condolence. By your arrival, I presume you received my letter concerning your brother, Keldmar?'

The royal candour caused the mercenary who knew the duke to cringe.

Bransian strode nearer, the clink of his spurs marking time to a tautened span of stillness. 'A scribbled word of sympathy would scarcely draw me here. And your sentiment's wasted.' He ripped off his mail coif. As though the steel were featherweight, he tossed it in a jingling arc. The captain who trailed at his shoulder fielded the catch with long-suffering familiarity. Over the sour clash of links, the duke added, 'I came because of this!'

Bransian's not townsfolk. He's neither in awe of Lysaer or desperate for protection. And he has no time or patience for empty gestures of condolence. He's here, because Arithon's given him an ultimatum:

'. . . the well-being of your brothers now held as forfeit. If you wish them to live, you will cut the supply lines across Shand that sustain the great warhost in Vastmark.'

Effective.

So here's something that was implied but I'm not sure was completely spelled out until now. The s'Brydions have been escorting the supply lines for the warhost. And the reason the supply lines have been relatively unmolested by Erlien's barbarians is because the s'Brydion name is attached. The s'Brydions are clanfolk, after all.

I've harped on this a lot during these reviews, because I think it's a very neat aspect of their interaction.

But it is important that the s'Brydions are clan. And Bransian has never forgotten that:

Bransian's eyes glittered like sheared iron as he shouldered his way to the trestle. 'You bear the blood of Tysan's caithdein on your hands, an affront no clanborn dares forgive. If your enemy is my enemy, that's no binding tie. The lives you would sacrifice are my brothers'!' The parked bulk of his frame set torches and candles into flickering eclipse. Amid the lick of wild shadows, his stance seemed as rock, implacable before royal sovereignty. 'Did you forget? Half of your vaunted eleven thousand are my own. How dare you presume my close family is worth less than the neck of one shadow-bending fugitive!'

Lysaer of course believes he owes no living man apology for "Maenalle's just arraignment for execution" (eat hot coals, you dickhead) and his position of course is that Arithon's death is far more important than any of this.

Bransian intends to kill Arithon, but he's not going to escort the supply wagons until his brothers are free. He's going to take his men and go after Arithon himself.

Fine, says Lysaer, but see how many of his men actually follow.

Lysaer is of course, very effective.

'His Grace is right,' ventured the mercenary captain in rooted, unnerving conviction. 'My lord, even for Keldmar, we cannot agree to desert.'

'Desert!' Bransian bristled. 'What cant is this? Fiends plague! It's my treasury serves up your pay. Our people never joined this campaign for the pretty scruples! Take care how you speak. The one you pay lip service with royal title is no prince to command the fealty of any man born in Melhalla!'

The captain held ground in granite calm. 'You were not here for the murder of twenty-eight thousand, nor did you see your own seasoned troops undone by illusion and sorcery. The Prince of the West sees a danger in this Shadow Master that runs beyond blood ties or kingdoms. His gift of light is promised to guard us. Any troop riding against this enemy without protection is begging a foolhardy end.'

The captain has clearly bought Lysaer's bullshit, hook line and sinker.

I do like Bransian's response though:

'Sithaer! You speak of the rockslide that mauled Dier Kenton Vale?' The tawny spikes of Bransian's moustache lifted into a sneer. 'Everyone knows this countryside's unstable. Your prince's warhost died of plain tactics. Any cornered fugitive would've chosen faulty ground to save his skin when a mass of armed might fit to flatten a whole kingdom came trampling in to seek his death.'

He's not wrong. But the bigger reason that the captain wants to follow Lysaer is coin. See, Alestron's forces are primarily mercenaries. And Lysaer's got gold enough.

Bransian storms off to collect his banners and men.

Lysaer of course, rallies beautifully:

Lysaer smiled as though the sun had come out and tapped the sealed pile of dispatches. 'I've inherited some five thousand of Alestron's best mercenaries. Duke Bransian may have withdrawn his family banner. We'll just have to see that Erlien's barbarians don't hear the same men are now taking pay from my coffers.'

To the courier's stifled awe, the prince laughed outright, a balm after hours of stiff protocol as officers came and left with terse orders. 'I'm assigning the mercenaries to resecure our supply lines from the coast,' Lysaer affirmed in that logic which could banish raw fear. 'What did you all think? That I'd stand down and leave because one old blood duke threw a tantrum? No. That would be a tawdry epitaph for the brave men who died, and small excuse to others who rely on us.'

The man does know how to give a speech.

--

We shift scenes to Dakar, who is entertaining fantasies of breaking the Law of Major Balance and causing the enemy scouts to mistake each other for Arithon's men and kill each other.

Certainly if he had to spend another day seeking permissions of sheep to seal illusions to make them look like rocks; or the same for rocks, to make them wear the semblance of sheep, he would beg for a mad fit of prescience just to escape his miserable boredom.

... The Fellowship idea of consent is really fucking bizarre. The SHEEP get to consent, but putting a memory block in an unconscious guy you just met, THAT's fine. Geasing a dude so that he can't eat food unless he follows some other guy around, THAT's fine.

Though to be fair, Asandir did the latter, and Dakar did the former. And I do believe DAKAR cares about consent. Still.

It is fun to see Dakar torment the scouts though. He's remarkably good at it. And even he notes that his mage-sight has newfound acuity. He gets an update on things:

More cautious with his oaths of displeasure, Dakar shivered under soggy clothing. 'How are we holding?'

'There's fighting, northside of the fissure,' the scout admitted, his braid fallen loose and fanned in plastered ends to his leathers. 'Duke Bransian's guard,' which meant a show of muscle by men who were fresh and well fed. 'They shouldn't break through now. Arithon's there.'

'To draw them, or maze them in shadow?' Dakar asked in concern.

The scout shrugged. 'Whatever's needed. He promised the tribe.'

I mostly just included this bit because Dakar is CONCERNED. Look how things have CHANGED!

Dakar heads over, and we find out why things are a bit complicated. There's a glen nearby where a tribeswoman is in childbirth, and she and her midwives are helpless. So now the archers and clansfolk have to stand their ground, at least until the baby is born and the mother can withstand getting taken away on a litter.

I do enjoy a nice Wurts parallel:

More archers could die in one hour, here, than on the slopes behind Dier Kenton Vale. That Arithon s'Ffalenn should spend lives for a promise to the young mother's kinsmen was a folly no one dared argue. The shepherd tribes of Vastmark might lie under Lord Erlien's sovereignty, as vested caithdein of Shand, but for their help against Lysaer's warhost, and the use of their pastures for his battleground, the Prince of Rathain had made them his personal trust.

Unsubtle, of course, but nice nonetheless. Shame Bransian can't appreciate it.

Dakar notes that if word spreads, Arithon could end up dead. The scout agrees, but Arithon is Arithon. So they hurry.

Fortunately, the woman's delivered the baby, so it won't be long. But Arithon, OF COURSE, has gone to hold lancers off himself so that their people aren't pinned.

Dakar catches up, and we're given this amusing character note:

Arithon was with them, wrapped in someone's borrowed cloak. Where his own had gone was anybody's guess; Dakar had seen him strip his shirt to cover a man struck by a mace, that his kinswoman not be haunted in her grief by the memory of his shattered face.

...of course he did.

Anyway, Dakar warns Arithon that use of shadow will reveal his location. Arithon thinks he can make his defense look like nightfall. But there's also the curse to consider: Lysaer's encampment isn't far away. So:

The shepherd he had jostled knelt, drew, and loosed. Downslope, a man screamed to a sliding clash of metal while the Mad Prophet threatened, 'If you stay, I fight beside you.'

'Dakar, you can't.' Arithon looked up, his dismay blurred in streamers of mist. 'Your talents are needed to clear the way to the pass. Caolle's sent word. There are headhunters entrenched to cut off our retreat to the high country.'

'My duty to Asandir was to defend your royal life, and for no light reason.' The Mad Prophet met and strove to hold that fierce stare, then flushed and gave way before the obvious. Any sally by headhunters could create a vicious standoff, see their small force trapped between the blundering aggression of two disunited sets of enemies.

'You do see.' Arithon dashed rain off his stubbled chin, then sheathed his dagger. 'For that, I owe you everything.'

Oh my god.

I thought you two were bad when you hated each other. Now you're approaching Finn/Carillon levels of ridiculous. I never thought I'd say this again but...

GET A ROOM.

(It's probably worth noting that at the beginning of Dakar's segment, the narrative complained about the weariness and weather for him. He's still bone-weary and miserable. But it barely registers now. <3)

We get to watch Dakar and the scouts be awesome and effective some more, until eventually, Dakar starts feeling a strange sense of alarm.

Once his party was safe, at the soonest opportunity, he must turn back and tell Arithon of his prescient vision concerning an assassin's posited attempt to claim his life.

Dakar tripped on the scarp, slammed his knee on an outcrop, and bit back his urge to cry curses. Ath knew, if Rathain's prince was to die of a strike from covert ambush, these hills held the gamut of his enemies to choose from.

I like that there isn't even a doubt anymore. Of course he's going to warn him.

And of course, he's not going to get that chance.

Dakar makes it to shelter, but Arithon's still busy, so he gets some sleep. When daylight comes, Caolle delivers some great news: Jaelot has finally had enough - they're starting to pull out of Vastmark.

But where's Arithon? Off down the trail taking some time to himself.

Oops. See, when Dakar was uneasy before, it wasn't that bad. It was nighttime. Dakar's vision was during the day.

Now. Basically. And Dakar realizes that. He yells at Caolle to send his scouts to look for an assassin and runs off. And he finds the location from his vision. He'd passed through it the night before. Now he recognizes it.

The last, outside hope became dashed at next breath. There the prince stood with his back turned, absorbed by something farther down the trail. Arithon wore leathers streaked dull from foul weather, the black hair uncut since his court visit to Ostermere knotted back with a deer hide thong. A quiver of arrows hung near empty at his hip, the yew bow he had borrowed set aside, still strung, against a scaled shoulder of rock. His bearing held the loose-limbed, enviable grace seen so often on the tranquil sands of Merior.

Then a rattling fall of pebbles shattered his moment of solitude. Arithon spun, his wild start of tension eased to a welcoming smile.

'Dakar,' he shouted. 'It's over. The warhost has broken to march east.'

He's so happy. Dakar keeps running.

It starts to rain. Like in the vision. It's so windy that Dakar can't shout. And we get some lovely self-recrimination:

Time slowed. Vision acquired a rending brilliance of detail; again he saw the brown skeletons of bracken, the eerie sense of framed stillness in the half-breath before frightful tragedy.

Then the last hope, ripped away as the sky opened up into downpour. The final facet of the vision given months before fell inexorably into place. Two steps, and Arithon would complete the angle of that image. Some assassin's arrow would fly and strike, and all they had accomplished would be lost. All; Dakar howled for the waste. The Mistwraith's dire threat would acquire free rein through his own colossal carelessness and a tardy, selfish hoarding of a loyalty he had almost rejected for blind prejudice.

I don't even know what that means.

But here we go:

Dakar had no time to frame spells to command steel, to bend air and arrest wood and feather. His desperate effort to warn Sethvir slipped awry in the chaos of the deluge. The fleeting second for preventive action slipped past. Arithon closed that fatal, last step, to stand isolate at the crux of fate and prophecy.

There was nothing else left under earth and sky one labouring, fat spellbinder could do.

The Mad Prophet launched his ungainly body in between to offer himself as Arithon's shield.

He takes the arrow in the back.

Now FORTUNATELY, he's got his counterspells ready to "engage his longevity training" (I really would like to know more about how that actually works) but there's a complication: a Koriani seal in the arrow to make sure that it causes a mortal wound.

And Dakar can't undo it.

Then darkness blanked his sight. Tears of remorse wet Dakar's cheeks, striped by the cold fall of rain. He understood he was not going to pull himself together, was not going to staunch the ebb of his life force in time. He would pass the Wheel and suffer Daelion's judgment without seeing whether Arithon survived.

Of all disappointments, that sparked his anger. He could not even snatch the awareness for the handful of minutes he needed to know the outcome of his train of mistakes.

The last thing he felt were hurried hands on his shoulder. Then a voice, perhaps Caolle's, in gruff and distant protest. 'Name of Ath, there's no justice in the world if he dies .. .'

But therein lay the unkind twist of fate. Had Dakar any breath, he would have railed against paradox, that for all his inept living, his one selfless act should seal his end. He wondered if Sethvir's histories would name him hero, or if his Fellowship master would appreciate the contradiction; and then he had no thought but silence.

Aw. I like Caolle's little cameo there.

But hey, for once, FOR FUCKING ONCE, the Fellowship does something useful:

Then a powerful voice pierced the chill and cracked the shackles of freezing blankness. Dakar heard his Name twined in power that could have raised the earth's molten core in fiery summons.

A question followed, demanding a permission. Dakar felt tears prick the insides of his eyelids and a ghostly sense of flesh he had forgotten he still possessed. His thoughts imprinted an awareness of Asandir's presence, then gave free consent to what was asked.

Someone he could not see cried out in relief.

Hi Asandir. All is not forgiven, but I won't insult you too badly this time. Asandir sends Dakar back to sleep and starts the healing.

--

So Dakar wakes up at nighttime. And:

Against every blundering mistake in creation, his master had seen fit to assist his survival. The result promised punishment and joy.

A swathe of firm bandaging constricted his chest.

Every breath jerked an ache through his back. He still did not know; he feared above all to ask if his foolhardy act had won reprieve.

Then the voice he most wanted to hear this side of the Wheel spoke in gentle censure at his bedside. 'For the armoury at Alestron, I'd say we were quits.' Lean hands closed over his palms and pressed something sharp and metallic into his strengthless grasp.

The Mad Prophet rolled his eyes to find the Prince of Rathain propped on crossed arms against his bedside.

Aw.

(Don't get me started on the idea that Asandir would DARE punish Dakar right now. Instead, I'm going to enjoy this bedside moment.)

Arithon explains his comment: the arrow meant for him had been enscribed clan style: "From the hand of Bransian s'Brydion, for the seven who died in the armoury."

Oh. Hey, check this bullshit out:

Arithon answered his urgent concern. 'Asandir found out about the Koriathain as he healed you. No one knows why their order should wish me dead.'

Dakar expelled a scratchy sigh. 'If the Fellowship saw, why didn't my master do something earlier? Where has he gone now?'

Above him, etched in motionless tension, Arithon weighed his reply. A masterbard's exacting intuition let him say, 'Sethvir picked up your distress on the ridgetop and passed on the warning. But Asandir made no intervention until you had accomplished the errand he set you on course to complete.'

...so Asandir knew Arithon was in trouble, but decided to do jack shit until his apprentice took an arrow in the back. WOW. WOW.

I fucking hate that dude.

Aw.

'Ath!' Dakar whispered, too weak for heat and vehemence. He coughed out the rancid reek of mutton fat. 'Don't ever run afoul of a Fellowship Sorcerer. Their ways are devious and tangled in a manner even Daelion couldn't fathom.' But hindsight showed his assigned service to Arithon was no penance, after all; just a difficult lesson brought to full circle.

Anyway, Asandir's actually off to drop off another ransom demand on Lysaer's doorstep: because of Dakar's warning, Caolle was able to capture Duke Bransian himself. They've got all four brothers s'Brydion now.

Also, Asandir left his wish that Dakar can "choose [his] own road from this place.' But...

'I'd stay in your service, if you'll have me.' Reddened in diffidence, Dakar tucked his bearded chin beneath the coverlet. 'If after Jaelot and Merior and yesterday's blunder, you can imagine me becoming something more than a damned liability.'

Across from him, Arithon raised eyebrows in surprise. 'My service of itself is a damned liability. Has an arrow in the back taught you nothing?' Then his lips flexed and dismissed his rare smile. Unmasked by deep warmth few others came to witness, he added, 'In truth, Dakar, I'd be honoured. Three times you've proven your worth and your caring. I'd be the world's greatest idiot to turn your offer of friendship aside.'

Overset by embarrassment, Dakar stared up at the worn weave of the tent, pricked with holes at the roofpole. 'I'll still get drunk,' he warned. The light swam around him, bright beyond bearing, and the air felt too thick to draw past the lump in his throat. Against a maddening, sleepy urge to drift beyond thought, the Mad Prophet mumbled into the fleeces. 'I'll not give up whoring, no matter how horribly you plague me.'

Somewhere far off, the s'Ffalenn prince was laughing without satire. 'If five centuries of apprenticeship with a Fellowship Sorcerer failed to break your decadent habits, who am I to dare try?'

Oh my god.

GET A ROOM.

Wait. You're in a room. GO BANG YOU FUCKNUTS. I know hate sex is out of the question now, but you could have REGULAR SEX.

(That said, it really does sink in, when looking at Arithon's reactions in this scene, how utterly lonely the man must be. He's so HAPPY right now. I think he's wanted this for so long, but never admitted it to himself.)
--

So the next subchapter is Last Defeat.

We're with Lysaer again. And for once, for once, I kind of sympathize with him.

'You are not welcome here,' Lysaer said in stiff anger, while the Sorcerer regarded his stilted reserve in a stillness that marked them both as figures set apart. 'Not only for the fact you speak for the Shadow Master, and not just for the misfortune that Arithon demands another ransom from me for a hostage.'

Asandir regarded the s'Ilessid prince unabashed, while the water channelled off his silver hair and through the grooves scored from the corners of his eyes over cheekbones like weathering on old granite. His answer, when it came, held restrained sorrow. 'That's a very large statement, made from a very closed heart.'

Look dude, after what you did to BOTH brothers, you can shut the fuck up. Asandir even gets a really irritating moment where he reassures a trembling page that there's no truth behind "whatever tale of horror you've been told"

Oh, I bet Lysaer, Arithon and Dakar could tell tales. You're just lucky that Lysaer's too fucking batshit to be taken seriously, Arithon's a masochist with a massive guilt complex, and Dakar's had five hundred years of indoctrination.

Though to be fair, this bit is just petty:

The boy looked uncertain. 'You take no babes from their mothers for sacrifice?'

Seriously, Lysaer? Asandir is unimpressed and notes that his kind also doesn't interfere with mortal lives unasked (*cough* BULLSHIT *cough*)

But this exchange is interesting:

'Should I lie?' Lysaer rebutted, his attention already strayed ahead to the needs of the people beneath his banner. 'Men have every right to fear the forces of sorcery for as long as the Master of Shadow is free to terrorize their towns, and slaughter their comrades by the thousands on the field.'

In aggrieved awareness that no words of reason could pry through the implacable beliefs engendered by Desh-thiere's curse, Asandir lent the statement no endorsement. Would you sentence a criminal without hearing both sides of a grievance? I leave you with a challenge, that you make the chance to ask your half-brother's allies for their view.'

'I shall, if you deliver him to my court for judgment in chains,' Lysaer countered.

Justice challenging "justice". But Lysaer's "justice" was twisted a long time ago. If it ever really existed.

Asandir leaves and Lysaer is feeling the burn.

Alone, unsupported amid the dismembered wreckage of his hopes, he fought back despair as the seep of grey weather and the measure of his losses sank their grip on his heart and squeezed. The shame of his defeat at Dier Kenton Vale would weigh on him all of his days. Nearest to the heart, on the heels of his wrenching estrangement from Talith, he must bear home the news of her brother, killed on the field by barbarians.

Beyond life, the mark of ignominy would endure, indelibly set in Third Age history.

A thousand lesser sorrows surrounded him. Soldiers who had set faith in his march to claim due justice slogged through chill puddles to dismantle the field tents. They moved with bent heads, and cheeks grown hollowed with hunger. Their voices as they attended their duties rang dispirited, except in reference to their longing to return home. Under the leaning, bare poles of a cook shack, the wounded and the sick waited to be carried to wagons on litters. In a field pavilion nearby, in sombre, lowered voices, Lord Commander Harradene conferred with other captains on how they should handle the inevitable illness that must sweep through the ranks as the weather worsened.

Pain became anger, that all the brave efforts of three kingdoms' muster had come to naught.

What about their lives, Lysaer? There was a time when you cared about them...

But Lysaer's ready to regroup even as he gives the retreat order to his adoring men:

Inspired by recognition that he had cast his net too small, Lysaer gave a smile of encouragement to rival a Fellowship Sorcerer's. 'We return to Avenor, not to accept what has happened, but to become the supreme example for all other cities on the continent. If every man comes to hear of this campaign, if every village learns of our enemy's threat and guards itself against corruption, there will be no roof anywhere under which the Master of Shadow can find shelter. We can make certain, the next time he strikes, that no one alive gives him haven.'

And there lay the answer, Lysaer determined as he watched his captain straighten tired shoulders and stride off to attend his men in revived spirits.

So...what does he actually mean by that? Well, we start to get some idea:

Lysaer stepped into his command tent, sent his page to find his secretary, then pondered the formidable obstacles confronting the seeds to restore his grand plan. Avenues of support still existed for Arithon, whose powers could never be vanquished: Fellowship Sorcerers and adepts of Ath's Brotherhood were unmoved in corrupted belief that his shadow-bending deeds were tied to innocence. To make way against such uncanny force and mystery, the influence of initiates and mages must become undermined or supplanted.

...um. That sounds a little ominous actually.

To crush an enemy who commanded the fell powers of the dark, an armed host must be raised that was willing to die for the cause. One bound to unity through beliefs too strong to be routed by old superstitions or illusions of Dharkaron's legendary chariot.

Lysaer settled into the damp velvet of his camp chair. Knuckles pressed to his temples, he frowned as logic vaulted him through avenues of fresh thought. To bring down a criminal who manipulated men's fears as a weapon would require soldiers who would march on command to outface the very essence of evil.

...as does this.

And we go:

To lead such a force, Lysaer perceived he would have to be more than a Prince of the West, more than Lord of Avenor, greater than the ancient royal bloodline of Tysan.

He must stand before people of all kingdoms as a presence beyond mere flesh and blood. Only then could he raise the inspiration to fire men to offer themselves in sacrifice.

His talent with light gave him birth claim to power. Davien's fountain lent longevity. Should he not stand as the servant of innocence to rid the land of Arithon's malevolence?

We saw the seeds of this before. Lysaer's reluctance to admit to human weakness or blood ties. And here we go. Lysaer is going all religious on our ass.

But first, he has to raise the gold to free the s'Brydions. Why?

Lysaer regarded him, sobered to attentive sympathy. 'What were you thinking? Did men dare to presume I'd forsake my sworn allies over a conflict between blood family and loyalty?'

'Some say so, your Grace,' the secretary whispered in diffidence.

'Well, they must be made to see otherwise.' Lysaer surged to his feet, charged to magisterial vehemence. 'The name of no man who fought here shall be forgotten. No ally shall go unsung. The s'Brydion brothers will be ransomed by my treasury, and every survivor who leaves here shall go as my vested envoy. We who survive must spread word of the wiles and sorceries that led our best companions to ruin. Our cause is unfinished until this whole land has been raised against the Master of Shadow. When all cities stand against him, how can this Spinner of Darkness win aught but misery and failure? Our work must be diligent. Until every heart lies barred against his wiles, our enemy will have foothold to seed ruin.'

The secretary bowed, sat, and opened his lap desk. Refigured by hope, the proud scion of s'Ilessid began his energetic dictation. The missive he sent, penned and sealed beneath his sigil, was signed, 'Lysaer, Prince of the Light.'

Here we go.

Between the collapse of the camp and the dismal, chill fall of night, the secretary spread his story of the letter written for his liege lord. His reverent account gained fresh impetus as Lysaer walked the common ranks, clad in shining gold and surrounded in a nimbus of summoned light. Where he passed, he left laughter behind him. The first, hopeful whispers of rumour began to spread. By the hour Avenor's staunch captains dispatched their sentries to stand guard at the war camp's perimeters, the password they used became the slogan, 'light over darkness'. Talk around the smoking, half-drenched embers of the firepits bandied a hopeful new title. Men found their warmth in a litany against cruel grief and despair. 'The Spinner of Darkness will one day come to fall before Lysaer, Prince of the Light.'

It's time for the purple prose to be WEAPONIZED.

The prince pledged then never to fail their brave belief. In fierce fervour, a beacon of hope against the ill-turned machinations of an enemy who had no claim to principle, Lysaer s'Ilessid rededicated his life. More than prince, greater than king, in a faith beyond mortal limits, he would labour all his days to become the example of a higher truth.

Of all men, he alone held the gifts to lead, and to rid a helplessly pregnable land of exploitation born from misuse of sorcery.

When the hour arrived, and the Master of Shadow was at last brought down, Lysaer resolved to leave something brighter, more enduring, than a history of war to reward the faith of his followers. Straight in his chair, his eyes alight as the concept took fire in his mind, he let a small smile turn his mouth.

From defeat would come a monument of shining strength. His work would bequeath the five kingdoms a benefit beyond the cost of Arithon's death, and bestow upon Athera a structure of permanent protection to outlast all creeds and boundaries. For as long as men kept records and built cities, his name would be remembered for justice.

This will be FUN.

--

So now, the last subchapter of the book. Last Victory.

And here we rejoin the brothers s'Brydion (minus Bransian.) They've been kept in a shepherd's hut for a few weeks now, and they're bored and reckless. They have somehow managed to not kill each other, but there's lots of bickering. (While the tribesmen guarding them are as "thick-skinned as their sheep" and only interfere if it looks like dismemberment is imminent.)

I particularly enjoy this bit:

Parrien, on the pallet, waited slit-eyed for another ripping fight. Always, his younger brother's glib insults set Keldmar into a rage. In idle, seething boredom, Parrien wondered if the archers outside would use arrows through the hole in the shutter again to stop Keldmar from bashing Mearn unconscious with his fists.

AGAIN.

But their boredom is finally over. Bransian is here. And apparently, Bransian's got some new information.

(There's a really nice moment where Parrien is wrathful at the gash on Bransian's forearm. They're cranky brothers, but they're brothers.)

The duke sucked in a huge breath. Dulled light caught on the scored links of mail through the gaping rents in his surcoat as he announced with bemused interest, 'They've done nothing.' His beard twitched to reveal a flash of teeth. 'That's just it, I can't fault their judgement, though Ath knows, for our folly, I've been unforgiving as the Fatemaster himself. We've been lied to. A tidy division of our mercenaries have been thrown away for a false cause and an idiotic misunderstanding.'

Per Bransian, they've been fighting on the wrong side.

See, Bransian's had some time to talk to Erlien's clansmen, who have been open with some very interesting information. Among other bits:

'I say, we've been trying to kill the wrong man.' Before the fire thrust in his face torched his whiskers, Bransian snatched the candle away. 'Did you know Lysaer s'Ilessid is half-brother to Arithon s'Ffalenn?'

Mearn started.

Keldmar's square face showed interest. 'Who says?'

'Erlien's clansmen told me.' Bransian tipped the wick above the nearest stone windowsill, dribbled off melted wax, then fixed the shaft upright in the puddle. 'Others from Rathain knew a good deal more besides.' He waited for hot liquid to congeal.

So this is the subchapter where a lot of cultural chickens come home to roost. Lysaer's been very closed-mouthed about his blood ties with Arithon, and by doing so, has actually shot himself in the foot for once. Of course, the Etarrans weren't likely to care. They eat, sleep and breathe intrigue. The Jaelot folk are too wrapped up in their debauchery.

But Alestron is ruled by a man whose family is so important to him that he'll sacrifice everything to get his annoying brothers back.

To this man, and to his annoying brothers, the fact that this is actually a family squabble is ACTUALLY VERY RELEVANT. Especially if Lysaer is going to keep that shit secret.

The brothers are still pretty aghast that Bransian seems to want to forgive the armory. And the rout at Dier Kenton. (Or at least Mearn and Keldmar are aghast. Parrien looks thoughtful.)

And we get some interesting little cultural notes here:

'I don't for a second discount what's been done,' Bransian said. 'But this is a high prince sanctioned for inheritance we're speaking of! Our formal protest through the Kingdom of Melhalla's appointed regent was given over to Shand. By the laws of the realm's charters, justice was served when Lord Erlien fought the Teir's'Ffalenn at swords for our honour. Arithon bested him. The fight was a fair one. The caithdein of Shand has pardoned the grievance, satisfied.'

That was in Merior. These are big books, so you'd be forgiven for forgetting. But Erlien said much the same at the time. It's interesting to see how much of clan culture predates current circumstances.

So Bransian tells them what he's learned from his actual fellows. Like Tal Quorin:

The bloody encounter at Tal Quorin was recast to fit a less lofty pattern. By Bransian's retelling, the clansmen of Strakewood had made no attempt to vindicate the ugly details. Nor did they grant the violence born of Desh-thiere's curse with anything less than cold truth.

'Etarra marched first. The Master of Shadow used grand conjury in defence of his feal following. He has answered for his misdeeds in the north.' In fact, by clan account, Bransian had been given to understand Rathain's prince kept no tolerance at all for masking his acts behind false ideals and self-sacrifice.

The flame fluttered out in a drowned reel of smoke by the time Duke Bransian summed up. 'We hated the man and desired to break him because he destroyed our best armoury.'

And that's the thing about the s'Brydions, I said it all along. They've never bought into the purple prose. They have a real grievance. And Mearn asks about that. They lost men there. Sorcery gutted their keep. And there was no Mistwraith provocation.

Bransian has a unique solution for this. He wants to ask Arithon.

Holy shit. Someone who actually wants to ASK ARITHON what happened and why. He also notes that Arithon at least attacked them outright, where Lysaer manipulated them and then suborned their men.

(There's also a cute bit where Bransian is attributes his brothers not murdering each other during three weeks in the same place to a "true miracle". I really do love these guys)

--

So a bit later, Arithon comes by so they can talk. Arithon's purple prose is in fine form:

Arithon twitched down his cuff, reached under his leathers, and produced a brace of fresh candles. Silent, thoughtful, he proceeded to light them in succession, while the brothers s'Brydion regarded the sorcerer who had fired their keep three years before. Seen under flame glow, removed from the harried press of action, the face beneath its ink-dark hair retained an unforgettable severity. More tired, perhaps, more drawn from wear and strain, the features held the reticence of cut glass. Plain shepherd's dress masked a highly bred frame that lent a deceptive impression of fragility to what was actually tough and murderously agile: the brothers s'Brydion had excellent cause to remember.

I really do think Wurts has a kink.

Anyway, Arithon brings news: Erlien's clansmen weren't fooled by Lysaer's masquerade (clan knows clan), and the supply lines were disrupted. Lysaer's men are withdrawing.

The catch is that Bransian's still loyal lancers are looking for him. Arithon would like them to go home rather than have to kill them, so he's looking for advice. There's also some back and forth about Lysaer having appropriated their mercenaries. Alestron will need their men.

Amusingly, Arithon's complete asshole approach (a brass tongue for a mountebank) actually seems to be pretty effective with the s'Brydions. They like frankness. However, their concern is the armory.

Arithon's got a few other concerns to discuss first. First of all, their ransom. This pricks Bransian's pride, but Arithon's got some mischief in mind: basically, he'll give them half of whatever ransom he gets as "compensation for the losses imposed for misplaced causes."

The s'Brydions are not opposed, nor are they opposed to withdrawing from Vastmark and calling the stray lancers back. But they want to talk about the armory.

And oh. Okay, here's something I missed. I thought the fire in the armory was an accident. And it was. But part of the issue was that there had been a fire spell in the barrels in the dungeon.

And the s'Brydions hadn't known it was there. They thought it had been Arithon, but Arithon explains how he'd lost his mage talent at Tal Quorin. (Which the clansmen had already confirmed.)

So now there's an interesting question. Who DID put the fire spell in the armory?

(Edited note: It occurs to me belatedly that, since Asandir removed the knowledge of gunpowder from the s'Brydions, that might be how they're remembering it...which would mean that the s'Brydions are the ones who "put the fire spell" there. So to speak.)

'Sethvir could have been trying to find that point out.' Bransian sighed, grinned, then shrugged like a rawboned hound, beaten often but never quite housebroken. 'We were rockheads and obstructed his investigation. For not heeding the Fellowship, likely we deserved all we got. But if we misplayed things then, we need not add to the problem. There's a bigger injury over the theft of our mercenaries and the misuse of our clan honour. I'd say we have cause to apologize for one wrong, and help Rathain to bloody Lysaer to right the other.'

I love the line "beaten often but never quite housebroken". But also, dude, don't apologize for making things difficult for the Fellowship. They're the WORST.

Arithon on the other hand doesn't want support. He intends to turn Vastmark back over to the shepherds.

I like this bit from Keldmar.

Keldmar brushed aside protest. 'Lysaer's no man to give up his grudges. Over beer at Etarra, I found out. Yon prince recalls every slight, even to the ones your dead father dealt his family during his childhood beyond the West Gate. That's obsession, his pretence at justice. You didn't just break Lysaer's warhost here in Vastmark. You stuck a thorn in his family pride.'

"Justice" was a terrible trait for a king. And I'd bet Keldmar remembers all this with a new context, now that he knows about the blood relationship. It really is brother vs. brother.

Arithon is Arithon though and still doesn't want an alliance.

But Bransian's a better arguer than Tharrick was.

By Ath, man, don't spit on good fortune!' Bransian towered over the smaller, dark prince with his arms crossed and his eyebrows bristled down like the boss of a bull set to charge. 'After what you accomplished in Dier Kenton Vale, you have to know you're going to need us.'

'Ath forfend!' Arithon melted back into laughter. 'I should hope not! At least, not for a very long time. Besides, if we're both plotting to get rich off your freedom, the peace might last longer if Lysaer was left to believe you're still loyal in support.'

Bransian scratched his head. 'You know,' he said in dawning and devious joy, 'that misapprehension might be a useful thing to foster. Serves the canting liar right.'

'Do you think so?' An answering spark gleamed in Arithon's eyes. 'I'd never presume to ask, but truly, the warning could be useful, next time, to know what sort of counterploy my half-brother's got brewing inside his closed city councils.'

SPY TIME.

And I love this so much. I love this SO much:

'I like this.' Keldmar grinned like a wildcat. 'It will be my born pleasure to make that yellow-haired pretender pay our ransom, then use his private trust to strike him back. It's fitting. He got me drunk to mislead me as Alestron's envoy, a cold-handed breach of hospitality. And the blood of his own caithdein's on his hands. No one's made him answer for that.'

'It's the classic mistake.' Parrien finished in bleak ire. 'We're clansmen, and always those cityborn upstarts forget, and try to treat with us under town law.'

'Then it's settled.' Bransian yanked out his dagger, spat on the blade, and grinned through his frizzled nest of whiskers. 'You've got allies, your Grace. If you want them or not's a moot point. Sure as you're born the sanctioned Prince of Rathain, you have no vested sovereignty in Melhalla. Nothing's to prevent us from acting in your favour. Not unless you want to challenge my authority with bare steel and send me to the Fatemaster unrepentant.'

Because the s'Brydions are fucking CLAN. Lysaer NEVER understood what that meant. And he never bothered to learn.

But I also love the reminder that while the clans serve the royal lines, they don't serve EVERY royal line. You're dealing with a separate sovereign nation here, Arithon. One whose royal line died a long time ago. (s'Ellestrion, we'll learn at some point, died in the flight to Dascen Elur. His built in trait was "wisdom" and I feel like the fact that "Justice", "Compassion", and "Foresight" (BULLSHIT) made it across while "Wisdom" died, explains so much.)

Anyway, they've got their accord. The war is over. And hey, this bit here:

Then he stepped out, the weight on his shoulders lightened at last, and the way to his freedom at hand.

Propped up in bandages amid the group of shepherds, Dakar the Mad Prophet saw a flare of rare joy transform the face of Rathain's prince. After horrors and pain, here lay a moment of precious victory.

Vastmark could be left to its wild, bucolic splendour. Beyond the winter peaks of the Kelhoms, wide oceans awaited, with the Khetienn already provisioned to sail where no enemy could navigate to follow her.

Get a ROOOOOOM.

But that ends the chapter.
--

We do still have a sneak peek section though:

Views.

1. Sethvir is doing his usual bullshit. Blah, Koriani. Blah, vision. But there is a mention that "twined through his Name, to help him stand or bring his downfall, the Koriani healer who stole possession of his heart since Merior by the Sea".

Oh, hi Elaira. Been a while!

2. Talith is in her tower. Apparently she still sits at Lysaer's side when the charter granting him high king's office is bestowed. She is "no longer privy to her lord's gracious smile, nor does she share his royal bed . . ."

3. And finally, to close out the book, I'll just excerpt this one.

Elsewhere, on an unbroken circle of ocean, a lone brigantine bowls ahead of the winds toward the forgotten Isles of Min Pierens, marked on a Paravian chart; and the hand at her helm is that of a young girl, grown lean and sun-browned and angular, and beside her, his black hair blowing loose, his clothing a sailor's simple linen, the Master of Shadow stands content. . .

Dude. Jinesse is going to be so mad at you.

Also, I'd like to think Dakar is waiting below deck.

The end!

(Fuck! Now I have to figure out what I'm doing next week!)

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[copperfyre]

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